


Sprinkles

by yeaka



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cunnilingus, Ficlet, Food Kink, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Polyamory, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-01
Updated: 2016-03-01
Packaged: 2018-05-24 03:04:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6139160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gregory does the Malfoys’ work for a specific fee: <i>Draco</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sprinkles

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any of its contents, and I'm not making any money off this.

As much as he wants to rush— _wants to get inside and claim his reward_ —Gregory does the job right. He takes Astoria’s artsy sketch, does up proper drawings, gets the materials, and builds a brand new shed behind the manor to the very best of his abilities. He always does his best, partially because _it’s for Draco_ , and partially because he wants to stay the first person they owl when they need manual labour done. He never tries half so hard for anyone else. But no one else pays like the Malfoys do.

He marches right off the second he’s done. His white sleeves are rolled up his arms, hair a mess, dirt and sweat slicked all over him, but it doesn’t matter—he’s always been a wreck and Draco’s always kept him around. He still gets what he wants. He lets himself in through the sliding glass doors and follows the sound of their idle chitchat and laughter, until he finds them both standing in the kitchen. Draco has his arms folded across his chest and his hip leaning against the island, and Astoria stands by the stove. 

They both quiet to look at him, and Gregory doesn’t stop walking, just barks, “It’s done,” and marches right across the polished tile floor in his muddy boots. He waits for these moments too long, dreams about them too much, to be anywhere near eloquent. He makes it to Draco’s side, grabs a fistful of silk-soft blond hair and jerks Draco into him, hard enough to make Draco gasp. Draco’s grown tall but still _skinny_ , small and lithe and delicate: expensive. He’s a gorgeous gem too bright and rich to be in Gregory’s gorilla arms, but Gregory fights for and earns these times. He does whatever petty work they want of him, and he gets his payment: _Draco_.

Astoria says nothing as Gregory crushes her husband against him. Gregory wraps one massive arm around Draco’s trim waist, traps him in, tilts his head and smashes their mouths together. Draco makes a muffled noise but nothing else, hands coming to rest on Gregory’s chest, nails neatly trimmed and manicured. Gregory has dirt beneath all of his—dirt from Draco’s garden. He nearly bites Draco’s tongue off in his fervor. He kisses Draco violently, fierce and relentless, full of teeth and tongue and holding Draco in place by his hair. Something chimes—the oven? It opens, and he can smell something almost as delicious as Draco’s new cologne. When he parts their mouths to look, he doesn’t let Draco go.

Astoria sets a fresh cake on the counter, golden-orange across the top. She has a tube of icing over it a second later and starts to squeeze that icing out, coating the top thickly, just the way Gregory likes it. He said he’d have their shed ready by next weekend. They wanted it _this weekend_. He made it, so he gets two kinds of desserts. Or at least, a proper meal and an accessory. Gregory’s already ripping Draco’s shirt open when he tells Astoria, “Don’t bother.” She looks at him, arches one elegant eyebrow, puts down the icing, and leaves, heels clicking on the way. 

Gregory turns back to Draco, bites a harsh mark into his jaw and wrenches his button-up shirt over his shoulders. Astoria will have to spell the buttons back on later. Draco doesn’t argue. He never does. He’s perpetually whiny and irritating and pompous and always pushing Gregory back and making him _earn it_ , smirking and taunting and making full use of his power, but once Gregory really gets his hands on Draco, Draco succumbs. Draco becomes a pretty, breathless doll, clearly flourishing under his domination, but too proud to admit just how very _aroused_ he gets when his wife gives him away to a bigger man to fuck. 

Last time, Gregory just turned Draco around and fucked him right over the counter, cock in one hole and fingers in the other, rode him hard and made him burst and came right into his open dishwasher, then watched him lick his newly-washed plates clean. The dishwasher’s closed today. There’s something else on the counter, so Gregory reaches over to scoop a glob of icing off the cake. He smears it all over Draco’s cheek, while Draco looks away and breathes hard. His long lashes lower over his silver eyes, lips already glistening with Gregory’s spit and slightly parted. His slicked-back hair is a mess from being tugged. He’s so _beautiful_. And he looks best when he’s debauched. Gregory grabs Draco by the chin to hold tightly in place while he licks the icing off in broad, crude strokes that make Draco shiver. The sugary spreading tastes better on Draco’s salty skin. 

Gregory does it a few times—collects all the major chunks of icing Astoria formed before her departure—smears them across Draco’s face: the bridge of his nose, the curve of his jaw, his creamy neck, his thin shoulders. Gregory paints it all and laps it all up, and Draco trembles harder and harder and is, for once in his life, quiet. 

Sometimes, when it’s late, and Gregory’s done a lot around the house and earned himself a chance to fuck Draco hard into a bed, just the two of them at night, Draco will _lose it_. He’ll arch up and cry out and wrap his arms around Gregory’s shoulders and _beg_ to be _fucked_ , babble about how Gregory’s _his only friend_ and his _best friend_ and the one person that’s always been there for him and he’ll _cry Gregory’s name_. Those are the nights Gregory lives for. But pureblood walls are hard to break down, and a shed won’t buy him enough time for that. So he focuses mostly on his own fulfillment, even though, on some level, he’s _always_ trying to please Draco. 

He licks his way lower and lower down Draco’s body, until he’s tasting Draco’s chest, plucking at Draco’s rosy nipples, tugging them in his teeth because he knows his Draco is delicate but sometimes likes it a little rough. He runs his hands over Draco’s breasts, pinches them, wonders if they were ever rounder—he can’t remember. If there was ever a chance he could suck milk out of them. They’re flat, now. Smooth and slight, like all of Draco. Gregory uses his mouth on them while he fiddles with Draco’s belt and Draco’s fly, finally gets Draco’s pants down and pushes them away. Draco leans back against the counter, hips jutting out into Gregory’s body. Draco’s hands grip the ledge, knuckles turning white. Gregory reaches up and over them, grabbing a fistful of cake. He can practically feel Draco’s sneer at how crude Gregory is. He doesn’t care.

He shoves the cake against Draco’s flat stomach and rubs it in, some of the moist crumbs clinging to him but most scattering to the floor. Draco shudders as Gregory licks his stomach clean. The cake’s good, Draco’s better. 

Some of the crumbs catch in the short blond hair above Draco’s entrance, and Gregory thinks of fetching more but first lifts one hand. He slips it between Draco’s legs, cups tight against Draco’s pussy and _squeezes_ , eliciting a gasp. Then he rubs at Draco, reveling in the soft folds and the heat and the sheer wonder of _getting to touch Draco’s pussy_ —Vince would’ve died of jealousy. The day they found out, all of Gregory’s daydreams changed. He always wanted Draco. He was always loyal, protective, never told a soul. Now that he’s grown up, it doesn’t matter—he knows he’d want Draco no matter what he found between Draco’s ripe thighs. But he was young and horny and _wanted to fuck Draco so bad_.

He worships Draco’s body. He rubs Draco’s pussy and licks cake off Draco’s stomach and finally grabs at another chunk of cake, and he pulls back to flatten it against Draco’s entrance. He tried to get it wet on purpose, and it works—crumbs stick to it, the bulk falling away even as Gregory tries to shove it in, push it in deep—Draco can always use spells to clean it later, or Astoria can help him, or Gregory will come back and _lick it all clean_. Draco makes a keen noise, whining, but he spreads his legs a little wider and lets Gregory work. 

Once, Draco offered Astoria too. He didn’t want to; Gregory could see that in his eyes. Draco’s never been good at sharing. Gregory entertained one brief fantasy of fucking Astoria’s tits, then said no and drank Draco’s relief. Astoria seemed slighted until Gregory built her a new spice cabinet, and then she let Gregory fuck Draco in their shower. 

Sometimes, Gregory thinks he’d like to see them with each other. But then he thinks of all the years he spent carrying Draco’s books and killing spiders for Draco, and he realizes Draco’s been the pinnacle of everything. Draco’s a prince and Gregory may as well be at troll. He scoops cake bits off the floor and his own knees and pokes them into Draco’s pussy, just so he can lean in and lick them out again. 

Draco always loves this part—he cries out, then grits his teeth to try and quiet, but his hips buck forward into Gregory’s mouth. Gregory grabs Draco’s slender hips and holds him still, licking one long line from the bottom of his slit to the top, flicking over the little nub that rests there. Draco quivers, and Gregory licks again, dragging back crumbs into his mouth and diving right back in. He squirms between the folds and digs his tongue into all the little grooves, until Draco breaks and doubles forward, hands rushing to thread in Gregory’s hair. Draco holds Gregory’s head in place. Gregory doesn’t need the guidance. He wouldn’t dream of leaving. He eats every last bit of cake out of Draco’s pussy, having to pause every few seconds to lick his lips and handle all the juices dribbling out around him. Then he goes back to check for seconds. 

Gregory keeps going long after the cake’s gone. He laps at Draco’s entrance over and over, curling his tongue inside and fucking Draco hard with it, then running back up to lap over Draco’s slit. When Draco’s too wet, Gregory’ locks his mouth around the whole area and _sucks_ , loving the wanton moan Draco makes. Once, Draco tries to buck forward too hard, and Gregory slams him back against the counter and holds him there. Draco whimpers and trembles but stays, and Gregory lets his hands roam over Draco’s body while his mouth is at work. His own cock is ready to burst, hard as a rock in his trousers, but touching himself would mean letting go of Draco. Besides, then he’d just come. And he wants to make Draco come first. He always does. It’s his job: he’s Draco’s support. And he wants Draco to always offer this. So he pours everything he has into eating Draco out, until Draco lets out a sudden _scream_ , and his juices bubble up all the thicker in Gregory’s mouth, fingers tightening in his hair. Gregory only redoubles his efforts, licking Draco right through it. 

Right to the end, Gregory milks Draco out, and even then he spares a few lingering licks, memorizing the taste, checking, one last time, for crumbs. Finally, he moves his head away, and Draco nearly topples forward. Gregory catches him, as usual, and helps him to the floor, naked save for the trousers still tangled around one ankle, breathing hard and slick with sweat and spit. Except for the new absence of cake, he looks like everything Gregory’s ever wanted.

Draco doesn’t move to help Gregory out. He never does—that’s not his role. Gregory gets up on his own, steps as close to Draco as he can get, pops his fly and takes out his cock. The tip’s already beaded in precum; he’s painfully hard. He nudges the head against Draco’s forehead and draws it over Draco’s brow; Draco closes his eye and pouts, wrinkling his nose, but doesn’t protest. Gregory wipes himself all over Draco’s face before he starts to properly pump himself. It only takes a few strokes to explode, and then he’s painting Draco’s pale skin in thick jets of white. It’s just as mind-blowing as it always is—Gregory _glows with the pleasure_ , of seeing Draco, touching Draco, _coming on Draco’s pretty face_. Draco shuts his eyes and scrunches up again but takes it. Gregory goes until there’s nothing left. A few seconds afterwards, he still stands there, dizzy and hot. But finally he wipes himself off on a clean patch of Draco’s hair and tucks himself in. 

It doesn’t look that different than when Draco’s face was smeared with icing. Draco looks up at him through it, making no move to clean it off. Gregory stares back, wondering vaguely if he’ll get hard again. He’s never wanted anyone as much as Draco.

As he comes down, he doesn’t so much want sex anymore. He wants to clean off Draco’s face and kiss him, pull him close, cuddle him and demand they talk about this, but Gregory can’t do any of that. He knows that Draco _isn’t his_. That fact always ruins the afterglow. 

He fumbles for words he doesn’t have while Draco pants and recovers. Before he can do that, can scowl and send Gregory away again, Gregory turns and walks right out of the kitchen. He’s too embarrassed to go back and wrap up the rest of the cake he could take home. When he passes Astoria in the sitting room, lounging on the sofa with a magazine across her lap, he grunts, “Thanks,” and keeps walking. 

She calls, “Thanks for the shed,” after his back. 

Outside the gates of the manor, Gregory Apparates home, straight into his shower.


End file.
